


Falling Stars, Catching Lightning

by daftfear



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gift Fic, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 16:31:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3576213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daftfear/pseuds/daftfear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco’s talent and skill as a tattoo artist are without equal, but when Potter comes in asking for a custom piece that’ll take several sessions to complete, Draco finds his abilities and professionalism tested.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling Stars, Catching Lightning

**Author's Note:**

> This is alarmingly late, but it’s a birthday gift for snugglemint (on LJ) who gave me a list of prompts and allowed me to choose. Turns out, “tattoo” was a very effective prompt! Consequently, I wrote this and then read your story [Inkwell](http://hd-owlpost.livejournal.com/95815.html), which is awesome (and everyone should read it)! This is, in a way, the reverse of that one. ;) I had a lot of fun writing this, and I very much hope you enjoy it! <3 <3 <3

Falling Stars, Catching Lightning

Draco had barely finished prepping the ink phials for the day when the door sounded.

“Be with you in a moment,” he said, his attention on the eyedropper he was using to add the Fluidity Potion to each colour. Too much potion meant messy images, all the crisp lines bleeding into one another. And while it made for more artistic concepts, only one wizard had ever come in asking for that specifically—and Draco strongly suspected the man had already overindulged in a different kind of potion. 

The final drop added, Draco set aside the Fluidity Potion and turned to find the customer. When his eyes fell on a mop of messy black hair and a frustratingly familiar set of glasses, Draco nearly drew his wand on instinct. 

“Potter,” he managed warily. Glancing around to the door, searching for other Aurors or some indication of an ambush, Draco eased himself behind the counter. He cleared his throat once, adjusted the scrolls on his counter, and put on his best polite shopkeeper face. “How can I help you?”

The placid look on Draco’s face was not what Potter was expecting, it seemed, because he stood, staring and mute, for several moments. It was only once Draco raised an eyebrow, a slow, deliberate motion, that Potter came alive. 

With a smirk and a laugh, he said, “I’d have thought that was obvious.” A moment’s panic, Draco’s breath caught in his chest, and Potter gestured to their surroundings. “This is a tattoo parlour, isn’t it?”

Draco released his hold on the edge of the counter, his fingertips white, and exhaled slowly. 

“You want a tattoo?” Draco asked, sizing him up. Potter was much the same as ever, though the short, scrawny boy had grown into a well-toned man of reasonable height. His hair was, of course, still a disaster, and he apparently hadn’t heard of Sperling’s Spectacle Shop in Diagon Alley given the presence of his signature glasses. In terms of clothing, Potter seemed decidedly style-less. His trousers were Muggle denim, his shoes were something like Muggle trainers, and his shirt was of equally Muggle variety in an eggplant cotton. He had no piercings to speak of, and from the skin that was visible to Draco, no tattoos either.

He shifted only slightly under Draco’s gaze. Rather than seem uncomfortable, however, Potter adjusted his posture to stand straighter, wider, more commanding. Draco’s eyes flashed back up to Potter’s. There was defiance in his look. “You mean this isn’t a bakery?” he asked in mock surprise. “Yes, I want a tattoo, Malfoy.”

“Do you have any tattoos, Potter?” Draco asked, ignoring the look Potter was giving him. Potter crossed his arms.

“No,” he said. “But if having a tattoo is a prerequisite for getting a tattoo, I’m afraid I may have found a severe flaw in your logic.”

Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he pulled out a set of scrolls and a book filled with pictures for Potter to flip through. “Terribly funny,” Draco said flatly, “but I’m afraid getting a tattoo is not a joke. It is a permanent. The magic used in this shop is for life, Potter. I’m not some side-alley pop-up stall with penny enchantments that wear off by Christmas. My tattoos will not fade. They will not distort or discolour. They will not disappear. Not ever. If you have even the slightest reservation, this is not the shop for you. My tattoos are not for the faint of heart.”

Potter tilted his head slightly, slowly, a smile creeping at the edges of his mouth. Draco shivered. 

“Have you met me?” was all he said on the subject of ‘faint of heart,’ and proceeded to flip through the book Draco set out for him. “What are these, then?”

Draco leaned back against the stool behind the counter. He considered Potter as Potter considered his work.

“A portfolio,” he said. “Any tattoo in that book is available for purchase. I can also do custom work, but may need more time to complete it. I’ll illustrate something for your approval.” He crossed his arms, his thumb playing over the inside of his forearm. Potter had paused over a set of Quidditch-related tattoos. “Do you have an idea of what you want and where?”

Potter made a humming noise halfway between assent and pleasure, and a drop of something at once cold and molten settled in Draco’s belly. “I want all sorts of things, Malfoy, and I’ve got several ideas about where.” Despite himself, Draco’s lips quirked. “But in terms of tattoo, I want a phoenix. On my back.” Draco stilled. “You don’t seem to have any in your portfolio, though. It’ll have to be custom then, yeah?” 

Draco searched his face, but Potter seemed to have no idea at all.

“Are you certain?” he asked, and Potter gave him a look as if to dare him. 

Potter flipped through Draco’s work again, clearly admiring it. “You’re very good, Malfoy. I don’t see why you’d be worried about rendering a phoenix.” 

Draco scoffed, leaning on the edge of the counter again. “I’m not worried about my abilities, Potter.”

Potter’s eyes left the pages of the book and settled on Draco’s bare forearms, adorned with intricate sleeves. “Then what are you worried about?”

“Phoenixes are—uncommon—for tattoos in the wizarding world,” he said, a chill running over him as Potter studied his tattoos. “They’re bad luck.”

Reaching out a hand as if to touch the whizzing Snitch tattoo on Draco’s left arm, Potter looked up at Draco over his glasses. “Why’s that?”

Draco pulled his arms back, crossing them over his chest, and straightened his back. “Branding yourself permanently with a symbol of rebirth is a taunt, Potter,” he said. “It’s a taunt to Death. And an invitation. Claiming association with a creature who thwarts Death constantly is about as aggressive as waltzing up to a dragon and demanding it eat you.”

“Will you?” Potter asked, and Draco’s mouth went dry a moment, all words disappearing off his tongue. With a laugh, Potter added, “do the tattoo, anyway?”

“It’s no ill omen for me,” he said with a shrug in an effort to shake off Potter’s words. “If you’re prepared to face Death head-on, who am I to argue?”

Potter smirked, his expression veiling a secret Draco desperately wanted to know. “I think I’ll be all right.”

Draco studied the edges of Potter’s eyes, the crinkling from his smile, the sparkle in his green irises, and wondered what had become of the Potter he had known in school.

_Disappeared along with the Draco, I suppose._

“Very well, Potter,” he said, gesturing to the sofa opposite him. “Have a seat, and I’ll whip something up.” An afterthought, he flicked his wand and sent a scroll flying over to Potter. “And fill this out and sign it while you wait.”

“What is it?” Potter gave the scroll a suspicious look.

“A contract,” Draco said, pulling out drafting parchment and some quills. “Declaring you are engaging my services of your own free will and bear the full responsibility of your decision. It frees me of liability should you wake up in a few days and regret permanently marking your skin with a signpost to Death.” 

With a sardonic smile, Potter read through the parchment and signed. Draco, meanwhile, determined Potter was of no interest to him and focused his attention on the task at hand. He considered the blank parchment for several minutes before being interrupted.

“Mind if I flip through your portfolio while I wait?” Potter asked.

“You may do as you wish, Potter, as long as it doesn’t involve distracting me,” he said. Potter ambled over to collect the portfolio, but instead of taking it away, he began to flip through the pages right next to Draco. Every now and again, he’d make small noises of appreciation. A flare of pride rose in Draco, but his annoyance tamped it down.

“Potter.” He turned, quill poised over blank parchment, to glare at his customer. “Would you kindly be quiet?”

With a shrug and an innocent look, Potter wandered back over to the sofa, and Draco began to work. It took only half an hour to finish the stencil once he began; it was waiting for the image to solidify in his mind that took time. 

“Here we are, Potter,” he said, flipping the page to display. Potter approached the counter, eyes trained on the parchment. As he studied the image, his expression was inscrutable. Most clients gaped and gawped at Draco’s custom work, but Potter might as well have been reading about the state of Goblin-Wizard relations. After an appropriately—or inappropriately, to Draco—long time, Draco said, “If it isn’t to your liking, I will draw another—”

“It’s perfect,” Potter said. “Exactly what I wanted. Will it move?”

“All my tattoos move,” Draco answered. “And I have a particular idea for this one, but it would be better a surprise. Do you trust me?”

Potter met his eyes, green eyes boring into Draco, his lips slightly parted. For a moment, Draco thought he had gone too far, unraveling something from long ago, but then Potter smiled.

“Yes,” he breathed and, without another word, made his way to the chair. “Shall I?” he asked, pulling his shirt over his head. He stood half-naked before Draco could answer, his bare chest a smooth expanse of skin marred only minimally by old scars. “Where do you want me?”

_Everywhere._

Draco immediately quashed the thought and flicked his wand at the chair. It rearranged itself to seat Potter comfortable with his back available to Draco. 

“How large did you want it?” he asked. Potter straddled the chair and leaned onto the rest, his back entirely open to Draco, the waist of his Muggle jeans pulled low from his position. 

“Across most of my back,” he said, and Draco sized the image accordingly. He cast a modified Sticking Charm to the parchment and placed it against Potter’s skin, smoothing it out with his hands probably more than was necessary. When he peeled it away, a perfect outline stretched across Potter’s shoulders and spine. Draco conjured a set of mirrors.

“How is the position?” Potter’s eyes were on the reflection of the stencil, and Draco let his gaze wander, trailing down the line of Potter’s spine to his arse. When he looked back up, Potter was watching him, a smirk on his lips.

“Perfect,” he said. Draco settled next to Potter on an adjustable stool and Summoned the phials of black and red inks. As Draco set the various phials to floating where he wanted them, Potter wriggled and shifted in the chair, arching his back and pulling at the muscles in more ways than Draco might have thought possible. Mouth agape, Draco caught himself staring, his mind wandering to places he decided were most definitely off-limits. 

It had been years since he’d thought of Potter, of anyone, that way. Years since he’d allowed himself to attach a face or name to strange bodies in the night. Draco had bad luck with relationships, and his fortune certainly wasn’t about to change if Harry Potter was involved.

“For Merlin’s sake, Potter, sit still,” he said, allowing the bitterness in his mind to leave a sharp edge to his words. “Unless a scribbled phoenix was what you had in mind?”

Potter glanced over his shoulder, and Draco’s mind flooded involuntarily with images of Potter naked, glancing up at Draco from over his shoulder, his lips parted for a different reason. 

“How long do you think this will take?” he asked, shattering the image in Draco’s head. Clearing his throat, Draco made a sound indicating confusion. “I mean the tattoo. To finish it.”

Draco dipped his wand-tip in the black ink, drawing out a fine ribbon of liquid. It hovered like cloth in wind as Draco followed the stencil on the air above Potter’s back. “You’ve asked for a very large, very elaborate tattoo, Potter. And as I mentioned, I am not some side-alley amateur, and I do have other clients. The completion of this artwork will take several sessions at least.”

Potter hummed quietly and nodded. The motion shifted his back slightly and Draco flicked him. “So I reckon we’ll be spending some time together, then.”

A moment of hurt passed over Draco with a twinge, and he flicked the black ink image downward. It pressed against Potter’s back, searing into the skin, glowing bright red as it did. Potter hissed, and Draco cut the spell, cooling the searing. The black lines on Potter’s skin were clean, crisp, but slightly raised on the skin from irritation. The first quarter of the stencil done, Draco pulled more ink from the phial.

“I assure you, Potter, I am no more pleased by this situation than you are,” he said, paying as little attention to Potter or his body as possible. Only the phoenix existed in Draco’s focus now, only the lines that needed inking, the skin that stood to be marked.

Time ticked away, and Draco drew more lines, and Potter sat reasonably still. Slowly, the phoenix rose on Potter’s skin, its outline taking shape, stark and bold against Potter’s back. The head formed and the body followed, but the wings were the hardest part. Given the movement Draco planned, they needed more work, more attention, more ink. Most of it would never show, but the foundations had to be laid before he could build upon them.

As Draco tweaked a fiddly bit at the tip of the left wing, Potter decided to break the silence.

“I didn’t know you were an artist,” he said. Draco pursed his lips. “When did you start drawing?”

Frowning as he pulled at the tip of a feather that wouldn’t quite follow the stencil, Draco said, “I’ve drawn my entire life, Potter. Since I was a child. I have many talents of which you are unaware.”

“I can imagine,” Potter said, and the husk in his voice stilled Draco’s hand. “So what else don’t I know?”

Draco peered side-long at Potter, through the pieces of blond hair that had fallen out of place as he worked. Potter watched him awkwardly over his shoulder.

“As I recall, the not-knowing was a result of a decision _you_ made,” Draco said, turning his attention back to the tattoo. 

Silence fell between them for a moment, hard and brittle as diamond.

“I’m not going to apologize for what I did at age eleven,” he said, and Draco cast the next portion of the tattoo down. It seared into Potter’s skin, but he no longer hissed at the pain.

Draco pulled more ink from the phial. It was running low. “I never expected you to,” he said and went back to his work. “It was merely an explanation. I was perfectly willing to tell you, then. You were unwilling to listen.”

“Well I’m willing now,” he said, and Draco laughed once, without humour, despite himself. “So tell me.”

The wings were nearly complete, the black lines, edged in some places with red where it was necessary, formed a complex maze on Potter’s back. A labyrinth with no beginning and no end, only endless turns. 

“Tell you what? Is that how you go about beginning relationships? ‘Talk to me aimlessly about yourself’? Honestly, Potter.”

Something settled in his gut as he spoke, the core of a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

“Then start with your tattoos,” Potter said, gesturing at Draco’s arms and disrupting the flow of his lines. Draco glared at him. “What are they all for?”

“Why did you decide on a phoenix?” Draco answered. “You tell me why you’re so prepared to thwart an ancient wizarding belief for aesthetics, and maybe then I’ll tell you about my ink.”

Potter fell silent a moment, and Draco thought he might have won—though what the competition was, he didn’t know. But Potter wasn’t quite finished.

“I’ll tell you,” he said, and Draco blinked in surprise. “But only once you’re finished the tattoo. In the meantime, you tell me about yours.”

“Oh no.” Draco shook his head. “You do not have carte blanche to ask about all my tattoos when I get to learn about only one. You can ask about one tattoo per session. That’s the deal.”

With a twirl of his wand, the final section of ink settled into Potter’s skin, and Draco flicked his phials away. Potter considered his words.

“Deal,” he said, turning to offer his hand to Draco. It hung there for a few moments as Draco stared, taking in the sight of it. Potter, half-naked and newly inked by Draco’s hand, offering him what he’d asked for years ago.

And he took it. Draco shook Potter’s hand, unaware of himself, and motioned for him to get up.

“We’re done for today,” he said and pulled a small jar from the counter. “Apply this salve twice a day for two weeks, then come back for the next session.”

Potter, now on his feet, adjusted his trousers and looked at himself in the mirror over his shoulder. “It doesn’t move.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “It only moves once the tattoo is complete, Potter.”

Pulling his shirt over his head, Potter stretched his back once or twice. Draco moved back behind the counter, searching for more black ink to prep for the next customer, but when he looked up, Potter was still there.

He looked expectant, and Draco made a face. “One tattoo per session,” Potter said. “You haven’t told me about any yet.”

Draco crossed his arms. “Very well. Which one?”

Tongue between his teeth, Potter considered Draco’s arms. “Let me see them properly before I pick.”

The urge to curl inward, to protect himself, rose in Draco, but he rolled up his sleeves further and held out his forearms. Potter’s eyes roved across the skin, drawing out the lines and following the flow of the images. Before Draco could protest, Potter reached out and took each wrist, his touch gentle but firm, and turned Draco’s hands palm up to see the inside of his arms. 

He was covered, his sleeves complete, in intricately moving images. They played out a mural of artwork, each piece fitted as to a puzzle. Except one section. One part of his forearm was blank. Potter’s thumb played over the blank skin, and Draco was sure he would ask about it. He prepared for the moment, but it passed, and Potter smiled.

“This one,” he said, pointing to a set of stars connected by minute strings of glowing letters. Draco stared at the tattoo, dumbstruck. “I think I know, but I want to be sure.”

Swallowing slowly, Draco took his hands back from Potter. “It is the constellation Draco. My namesake, obviously. You seem to have wasted one—”

“No,” Potter said. “The letters. What do they mean? Why put them connecting the stars?”

Draco folded his arms again, standing taller behind the counter. He hesitated only a moment, allowing Potter’s strangely earnest green eyes to scale him from wrists to face. “They’re ancient runes. The first runes known to wizardkind. The first druids took power from shooting stars that fell from the heavens. They turned the celestial power into magic and wrote it into our blood. Or so one legend goes,” he said, eyes on his arms. “It’s almost certainly not how witches and wizards came to be, but it was a story I’d heard many times as a child.” Feeling strangely truthful with Potter’s eyes on him, taking in his every word, Draco added, “The tattoo is to remind me of my origins. Of the origin of magic.” He ran a finger over the glittering constellation. “We are made of stars.” 

Potter nodded, his eyes glittering much like the tattoo. It was unnerving. “Thanks,” he said and made for the door. “See you in two weeks!”

Draco stared after him, holding his arm, for long minutes, wondering what had just happened.

***

For the third time, Draco fumbled with the red ink. Finally, he set it aside, nearly slamming the phial down on the counter, and took several deep breaths. He was not nervous. Nor was he excited. He was _professional_.

The bell above the door tinkled, and Draco swung around to find Potter waltzing in, ten minutes late and without the good sense to appear apologetic. He said nothing at all as he wandered over to the empty chair, pulled off his shirt, and sat down with his back to Draco.

“Ah yes, good morning, Potter,” Draco snapped. “Lovely to see you too. Yes, it is a fine day, isn’t it? What? No, don’t worry about being late. It’s perfectly all right.”

Potter craned his neck to look at Draco but looked neither sheepish nor angry. He was smiling.

“Missed me, did you?” he said, and Draco frowned. With a flick of his wand, Potter straightened abruptly, his head down on the support of the chair, his back illuminated by the tip of Draco’s wand. “If you wanted me flat, Malfoy, you need only have asked.”

Draco ignored him. “Have you been applying the salve as I instructed?” he asked, but an answer was unnecessary. It was clear by the state of the tattoo Potter had done precisely as he was told. 

_Gryffindors can be taught, it seems._

“Every morning when I wake up,” he said, “and every night before I go to sleep. Like you told me to.”

Draco released the hold on Potter and Summoned his phials. “I said twice a day, Potter, not morning and night.”

Potter leaned against the chair, his head turned to Draco, wriggling against the leather chair again. “And here was me thinking you wanted me thinking of you first and last thing every day.”

Heat flushed Draco and his breathing hitched. “Potter,” he said, trying to maintain his calm. “If you need an excuse to think of me, I can provide other options.”

Draco straddled the stool, placing the phials floating over Potter as he felt comfortable, but Potter turned to face him more fully. His expression as clouded, sparking of something Draco wouldn’t identify. His lips parted.

“Maybe I don’t need an excuse to think about you,” he said, and Draco’s heart pounded in his ears. Potter shifted, about to do something, but a strange tapping at the window of the shop drew their attention.

An owl pushed its way through the post opening and dropped a letter into Potter’s hands. Sealed in Ministry purple, Draco sighed, relief washing over him, and turned his attention back to the ink.

“Fuck,” Potter said suddenly. “Have you got a quill I can borrow?”

Draco Summoned a quill. The first one to arrive was bright green, meant to be used for his illustrations, but he handed it to Potter anyway. Potter took no notice of the colour and scratched away at the parchment, folding the letter up and sending it back off with the owl.

Taking his quill back and setting it aside, Draco asked, “are you needed, Potter? We can resched—”

“No,” he said quickly. “It isn’t important. Just politics and idiocy. Hermione’s more than capable of handling that on her own.”

With a wave of his wand, Draco drew out the red ink and began laying it out in thick ribbons above Potter’s back. 

“Where were we?” Potter asked, but Draco couldn’t think about that now.

“Do your sainted friends know where you are at the moment, Potter?” he asked, his words razor sharp. Potter winced as Draco laid down the piece of red ink too quickly. The larger sections, filled with colour, burned more painfully thank the line art.

“I told them I was getting a tattoo, if that’s what you mean,” he said through gritted teeth. 

“And they approve? And the Weasley girl, too?” Draco stared resolutely at Potter’s back.

“It’s not really up to them, is it?” he said. “It’s my body. What I do with it is up to me. No one else. They respect that.” He paused and chuckled once. “Hell, Ginny’d be one to talk, if she said anything, anyway. She loves tattoos.”

A phial of yellow toppled with the force of Draco’s wand swiping past it. The ink splattered down, a waste of perfectly useful colour. It soaked over Potter’s back and flicked into his hair. Draco took a moment, counting his breaths, and cleaned up the mess with a spell. Potter jumped slightly at the magic washing over him. He eyed Draco sideways, but Draco ignored him, Summoning another phial of yellow.

“Well this should be a nice little turn-on for her,” he said, the words shooting from his mouth as though they were poison. 

Potter paused. “That would be unfortunate for Roger Davies,” he said, “seeing as he’s her fiancé and all.”

Caught in his words, Draco fell silent, his mind racing. He worked faster than was necessary, laying out blocks of red and orange and yellow across Potter’s back, overlaying the hues in the appropriate areas, and searing Potter’s flesh with more vehemence than was probably wise. But Potter did not complain. Not once.

Laying down the final piece of block colour, Draco cut off the spell and flicked away his tools. He collected two more jars of salve from the counter and offered them to Potter.

“Same routine, twice a day,” he said, and as an afterthought, added, “whenever you choose.”

Potter took the jars slowly, his eyes following the draw of Draco’s tattoos up his arms to where his sleeveless shirt began. Draco forgot to breathe for a moment, then shook off the feeling. He was losing control, and he needed to get it back.

“Do you have any I don’t know about?” Potter asked, nodding to his sleeves. “You owe me one for this session.”

Swallowing, Draco brushed his hair back into place with his fingers. “Just the sleeves.” Potter pulled his shirt back on and stepped closer to Draco. Too close. He leaned in to study close to Draco’s shoulder. 

“Do your parents approve?” he asked suddenly. Draco said nothing, and Potter tilted his head back. “I told you mine.”

The smile at the corners of Potter’s mouth drew it out of him. “Certainly not. My mother wasn’t happy, but she knew better than to outright try and stop me. Father, however—” Draco shrugged. “He told me tattoos were for low-class people. Said that branding your skin was tainting it.” Potter raised his eyebrows, saying nothing, to his credit. Draco smirked. “I told him I was only following his example.”

Potter laughed, honestly. He laughed and shook his head. “What did old Lucius say to that?”

“Nothing,” Draco answered. “He hasn’t said anything about tattoos since. And like you said, it’s my body. I’ll do what I want with it.” A comfortable silence fell, and Draco realized how close Potter was. He could smell him, the shampoo in his hair, the tea on his breath, the salt on his skin. He could smell the burning sandalwood smell of the ink on his back. Draco pulled back slightly. “I owe you an answer about my tattoos. Which one?”

Potter hummed and studied Draco’s arms closely again. A rush of— _something_ —flooded Draco as he let Potter examine him. Fingertips to Draco’s skin, Potter traced the edges of the tattooed Snitch, zooming through a lightning-filled sky. The storm was careful, planned. The lightning flashed again and again against a black-blue-grey backdrop, just narrowly missing the Snitch every time it struck.

“This one,” Potter said, licking his lips. “The Snitch and the lightning. And don’t tell me they aren’t the same tattoo.”

Draco swallowed thickly, his gaze locked with Potter’s. “The Snitch is about the chase. A reminder that the things I want most, the things most worthwhile, can be caught. With perseverance, determination, devotion. I can catch them.”

Potter nodded slowly. “And the lightning?” It was a breath, barely a whisper, as though he was afraid to speak the words. Draco said nothing for a moment.

“It’s powerful but uncontrollable,” he said, his eyes on Potter’s lips. “And uncatchable. It’s an endless chase between them, the lightning and the Snitch. But the thing I _can_ have is never caught by the thing I can’t. Keeps me grounded, focused, so I don’t go chasing things I’ll never have.”

Potter traced the fork of lightning on his skin. It sent a shot of lightning through his body. “But you did catch it,” he said. “It’s a part of you now.” Draco stopped breathing, his heart pumping hard against his sternum. “I think you’re leaving something out though. There’s more to this than that.”

Draco’s eyes flashed to the scar on Potter’s forehead and back. A spark of vindication flashed in Potter’s eyes. 

“Nonsense, Potter,” Draco said quietly. “What other meaning could there be?”

A long moment, pregnant with an agreement Draco wasn’t sure he intended to make, passed, and Potter stepped back.

“See you in two weeks?” he asked, and Draco shook his head, hoping to shake loose the tightness in his throat.

“No,” he said. “Three. The colour takes longer to set.”

“Oh,” Potter said, and Draco was almost certain he seemed deflated. “Three then.”

He left and Draco exhaled, his head hanging. He felt raw, heated, flushed—as though he had actually tried to hold on to lightning. But that was ridiculous.

_Lightning can’t be caught._

***

Potter lay out nearly horizontal in front of him. His back bare, his head down, his arse pushed back toward Draco—Potter was comfortable, calm, collected. Draco sat poised behind Potter this time, his legs spread wide to either side, his hips nearly pressed to Potter’s arse, hovering within inches of his back. He’d said he needed to be close for this session—only the fine details were left. This was the last session, and the tattoo would be complete.

This was the last session. And it was nearly over.

Draco’s hand hovered over Potter, his wand-tip angled down to draw out the flecks of gold and silver and blue and purple and green throughout the phoenix, to add depth and shades and highlights. The fine points to make the image come alive. But no matter how he shifted, trying to get comfortable without pressing himself bodily into Potter, Draco couldn’t bring himself to finish.

“Something wrong?” Potter asked, and Draco started.

“No, of course not, why would you ask that?” Draco asked, and Potter tilted his head, his face out of Draco’s view.

“You haven’t done anything in ten minutes.”

Draco froze, which did nothing really given Potter was correct—he hadn’t been moving. He cleared his throat once or twice and drew out a line of gold ink. With a few flicks, he scattered the ink around the image, floating above Potter’s skin like drops of Felix Felicis on the air. 

“This is the most difficult part, Potter,” he said. “It requires extreme focus and precision.”

“All right, no need to get your wand in a knot,” he said, but added with a smile Draco could hear, “at least not over that.”

A flush creeping up his neck, Draco forced himself to put the finishing touches on the tattoo. Satisfied with his work, Draco performed the incantation to seal the magic and the ink, ensuring it wouldn’t fade over time or with exposure, and sparked the movement in the image.

He watched the phoenix move for a minute or two, taking in the motion as it curved over Potter’s spine and shoulder blades, playing into the natural movement of his body. He pulled himself away reluctantly and got to his feet.

“Done, Potter,” he said, setting his phials aside. He conjured a set of large mirrors for Potter to observe his work. “I—hope you’re pleased with the outcome.”

Potter stared into the mirror, moving back and forth. The phoenix began as an ember, the flame growing quickly, spreading outward as the bird spread its wings. It flexed, wings wide open, across Potter’s back in a flurry of colour—every colour fire could be. It was sharp and vivid and full of warmth and fierceness. Draco studied the lines carefully, committing the sight of it, of Potter’s back and the curve of his spine, to memory. 

When he looked up again, he found Potter watching him in the mirror instead of his tattoo. His expression clouded again, sparking with energy like the phoenix did.

“Perfect,” he said. “This is exactly what I wanted.”

Draco smiled coolly. “I am a professional, Potter. Will you tell me why, now?”

Potter’s eyes went back to the phoenix on his back. He weighed out his answer, his jaw shifting side to side as he did. Draco thought he might back out, refuse to answer, but ever the Gryffindor trying to prove himself, Potter told him.

“I went to Voldemort at the Battle of Hogwarts,” he said without flinching for a moment, without thinking or caring about how what he said might strike Draco, flay him to the bone. “I went to die. I let him kill me. Everyone knows I came out alive, but they don’t know the other part.” He turned to Draco, his every movement radiating intensity, heat. “I did die. Voldemort killed me. But I came back. So the phoenix holds no ill omen for me, no bad luck. I’ve already faced Death head on and come out alive.” 

Unsure of what to say, Draco asked the first thing in his mind, “Then why tattoo that on yourself? Why remind yourself of that day?”

Potter surveyed him carefully. “It’s not a reminder of the day Voldemort killed me. It’s a reminder of the day I chose to live.” He shrugged, and Draco wondered how honesty came so easily to him. He handed it to Draco as though it were nothing. “I have nightmares—that I’m not really alive, that I died for good that day, that this is all a dream. I wake up terrified I can’t tell life from death anymore. This my way, now. To remind me I’m alive, that I chose to live, and that Death holds no fear for me anymore. I’m free of the fear.”

The world shifted, Potter confided a secret in Draco, and Draco was lost. He was lost in Potter’s eyes and his words. He couldn’t lose himself.

He swiped his wand at the counter, and a scroll flew over to Potter. “The full invoice,” he said, trying to side-step the moment, their closeness, but Potter ignored the parchment and approached Draco instead. He did not put his shirt back on, and the Muggle jeans slung low on his hips drew Draco’s eyes downward.

“We haven’t finished our business yet,” he said, his voice low. “You owe me another tattoo.”

It grew increasingly difficult to breathe as Potter stalked closer, the air between them heavy, humid. There would be no negotiation, no getting out of it, no putting distance between them now. Draco licked his lips, watching Potter’s eyes follow his tongue.

He held out his arms without a word, and Potter ran his hands up and down them. His touch was far more insistent now, his full palm against Draco’s skin. He grabbed Draco’s wrists again and turned them, revealing the blank space on his forearm.

“This one,” he said, fingers running over the blank spot. “I want this one.”

Draco held his gaze, his voice husky. “There’s no tattoo there, Potter.”

Potter’s lips drew up to one side. “Why.” Draco said nothing, his mind hazy from the feel of Potter so close, breathing him in. “I’d have expected this to be the first spot you’d fill. To cover—”

Draco drew himself taller, straighter, but did not pull away. “There was never a Dark Mark there,” he said roughly. “Never was, never will be. That’s why it’s blank. To remind myself of how close I came and to declare one truth to myself. I will never be branded.” Potter pressed closer, head tilted back as he followed Draco’s movements. “Not by anyone but me.”

Potter kissed him, his lips crashing hard into Draco’s, their bodies colliding like falling meteors. His hands drew Draco’s around his waist, forcing them against him, against his back, to feel the relief on his skin, the evidence of his artwork. He’d marked Potter now. Branding was an ugly word for it, one Draco reserved for harsh talks and dark thoughts. Potter seemed to know that, meant to reclaim the word for him.

But Draco couldn’t focus on the tattoo. His mind was on Potter’s tongue, the way it tasted against his own. His hands ran smooth lines up Potter’s back, tracing the tattoo. Their hips rutted together, urgently, wantonly. Potter’s fingers pulled at Draco’s shirt, nearly tearing it off until they were chest to chest, skin to skin. But he didn’t stop there.

Before Draco could think, he stepped out of his trousers and pants, his body pressed against Potter’s, their erections sliding against one another. Potter moaned into his mouth, and Draco lead him backward, toward the chair. When his leg hit the edge of the seat, Potter pulled away, sucking on Draco’s lower lip as he did, and catching it once more for a peck before he turned.

He straddled the chair as he had for the tattoo, angling his back and jutting his arse out further than before, beckoning Draco closer. Cursing to himself and intoxicated with need, Draco pressed himself against Potter, the head of his cock playing at Potter’s entrance. He reached a hand down and probed one finger, then two, but found Potter already stretched.

Draco paused, leaning around to look at Potter. Potter turned his head, his emerald eyes aflame with lust and daring him to ask. Draco didn’t need to.

He pushed inside Potter, slowly and deliberately, until Potter pushed back. Draco groaned, unable to make himself breathe, and Potter bucked once, twice, and Draco snapped out of it. He thrust in hard, deep, rooting himself in Potter, lightning into the ground. Again and again, he pushed into Potter, and Potter pushed back. 

Draco splayed a hand on Potter’s chest, drawing him close until Potter was sitting atop him. His sucked at Potter’s neck, his shoulders, his teeth dragging red lines across his skin. Potter moaned and grabbed Draco’s head, pressing him tighter against him. His fingers tangled in Draco’s hair, Potter slid up and down on Draco’s cock, his other hand drawing Draco’s fingers around his cock. Together, they stroked Potter’s cock while Draco thrust deeper.

It didn’t take long, and Draco cried out, his mind wiped blank and clear, the core of him pouring into Potter. Sagging against Potter’s back and the phoenix in flame, Draco stroked harder and harder until Potter came with a cry and a jerk. His body settled against Draco, then, and they lingered, rooted in one another.

After a while, Draco lifted his head, his breathing still laboured. Potter’s hand stroked slowly over his forearms, tracing the lines of the lightning tattoo.

“I think this was wishful thinking,” Potter said after a moment. 

“What was?” 

“The lightning always missing the Snitch,” he said. “Lightning never misses.” Draco snorted and rolled his eyes.

“You’re so sure,” Draco said, catching Potter’s eye. “Fancy a wager?”

Potter smiled and kissed him again. The feeling in Draco’s stomach grew—the spark of hope he hadn’t meant to ignite. 

“That depends,” Potter said. “How many more tattoos do you have?”

\---END---


End file.
